


snapshots of a purring life

by yellowcars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, John makes a lot of lists, Kittens, M/M, Post Reichenbach, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sherlock is a cat person he really is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 13:24:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowcars/pseuds/yellowcars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the km prompt: <em>sherlock likes cats but cats don't like sherlock. so when he finds a cat while leaving the morgue and she lets him pet her, he decides to keep it. [. . .]</em></p><p>Sherlock finds a cat and brings it home to 221B. John is at first extremely not okay with this, but life goes on and it turns out that having cats (and then kittens) around sometimes isn't really so terrible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	snapshots of a purring life

**Author's Note:**

> OP asked for kitten!fluff; I wrote nearly 3,000 words. I hope that somewhere therein lies acceptable fluffiness.

John Watson liked to make lists. It was one of those talents of his that wasn’t immediately obvious to the casual observer (rather like his gift for shooting homicidal cabbies right in the nick of time), but it’d served him quite well through medical school and he’d stuck to it through the years. It helped to keep his mind organized and wasn’t a half-bad way to fall asleep at night, especially when thoughts of Afghanistan started turning around and around again.

 

His most recent ones went something like this:

 

_GROCERIES_

milk

tomatoes

nonperishable starchy foods unaffected by morbid emanations from the fridge

bread

 

_GROCERIES THAT SHERLOCK WILL NOT BUY_

milk

 

_HOW TO DEAL WITH SHERLOCK_

(This last list, as it happened, was still firmly in the stages of Work-In-Progress.)

 

 

-

 

These days, it felt like he was going through a lot of emotional whiplash. His therapist would probably have a field day with it the next time he went, but quite truthfully he hadn’t gone since the day he’d bumped into the man in the street who’d turned out to be _Sherlock_ , though at the time picking up all those spilled books he hadn’t known. He wasn’t sure words could possibly describe what he had felt when he saw that face again, devoid of fake moustache and bushy eyebrows and remembered blood. (Choice number one: punch Sherlock. ~~Choice number two: plant a kiss on that stupid smug face.~~ )

Then there’d been the business with Moran and the wax dummy in an adrenalined blur, and he was fairly certain that all through that nerve-wracking night the back of his mind was in a full-blown panic, convinced that after getting Sherlock back he was about to lose him again. He’d surprised even himself by how calmly he’d acted, but he had never been so relieved to see the intervening presence of Lestrade & Co. in his entire life.

 

His therapist wanted him to better express healthier emotions regarding his loss. He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face the next time he got around to visiting.

 

What a _week_.

 

-

 

And all this is really a convoluted way of saying that this was why, perhaps, despite the fact that John Watson fundamentally did not get along with cats, he did not put up as much of a fight as he could have when Sherlock brought Lavoisier into their lives.

 

Not that he didn’t try, at first.

 

Day One of their acquaintance commenced with his flatmate entering the kitchen of 221B with a small striped cat in his arms. John, who had been idly scanning the paper for gruesome murders and/or the details of Moran’s trial (or best of all the highly improbable but deeply cathartic news of Moran’s gruesome murder) while waiting for the kettle to boil, had nearly choked on air at the sight of Sherlock—there were no other words for it— _cuddling_ anything, let alone something furry and four-legged.

 

“Er,” said John, giving the strange cat a quick once-over to check that it was still breathing. (Sherlock had yet to bring in bits of dead animal, but long experience had taught John Watson not to jump too hastily to conclusions.) It was. In fact, it looked quite comfortable, purring away and half-buried under Sherlock’s blue scarf.

 

“She’s quite pleasant, isn’t she?” said Sherlock, looking pleased with himself.

 

“ _She?_ ”

 

Sherlock was giving him an odd look, highly reminiscent of the _come on, John, keep up with things and stop being such a mere mortal_ look that John had found himself missing rather badly in the hiatus days. (Or, rather, he’d thought he’d missed it. Right now, it was only making him feel rather cross.) “Well, obviously. It’s not difficult to determine the sex of a _felis catus_ , John, even for those who aren’t veterinarians. You simply—”

 

“Yes, Sherlock, all _right_ ,” said the long-suffering Watson, by now quite certain that Sherlock was secretly laughing at him behind those carefully neutral blue eyes. “Might I possibly ask how you and this cat here managed to make such good friends in the, what, two and a half hours you were gone?”

 

“I found her near the morgue, and she was quite friendly. I’ve had in mind to do some qualitative studies on feline behavior for a long time now, as often the reactions of domestic animals in the aftermath of a crime is often a crucial piece of information; ergo, we came home together.”

 

“What, you just carried it home across half of London with you? And now you’re going to stare at it for a week and then write another monograph on your blog about it?”

 

“Unless,” said Sherlock, motioning with his head at John’s newspaper, his hands still being overly occupied with cat, “there has been anything interesting in the papers?”

 

He was forced to admit that no, there wasn’t. “Are you sure that you’re even allowed to keep this cat?” said John, playing a last and desperate card. “Lots of people don’t put collars on their pets, you know. I reckon this one’s probably missing and her owners are probably frantic.”

 

Sherlock shrugged, an elegant don’t-care motion that managed not to displace the cat. “Look through the agony columns for missing-feline appeals, then. But I doubt you’ll find anything relevant. And I expect it’ll be longer than a week.”

 

And with that, he sauntered off with his new friend in tow.

 

“Sherlock!” called John, now severely nettled, “I’m not paying for the bloody cat food!”

 

-

 

_THINGS TO DO_

convince Sherlock to put up those sodding missing cat posters

make sure Sherlock gets the cat the proper shots

somehow catproof Sherlock’s chemical laboratory

somehow convince Sherlock to carry out above

ask in the vicinity of St. Bart’s if anyone is missing a cat

research feline adoption facilities

 

_GROCERIES_

~~milk~~

~~cat food~~

bread

cheese

artichokes

pasta

 

_GROCERIES THAT SHERLOCK IS GOING TO HAVE TO BLOODY WELL BUY HIMSELF_

milk

cat food

 

-

 

Of course Sherlock had to bring home a cat that shed indiscriminately. Even John, who at the age of five had been jumped on by an enormous angry tomcat and left permanently scarred by the experience, had to admit that Sherlock’s (not their; _Sherlock’s_ ) cat was vaguely adorable and undoubtedly graceful, especially in the way she always managed to make the three-foot leap onto the kitchen counter whenever meals were being prepared. But if he had to wake up one more time with cat hair spread in a luxurious layer all over his nicest jumpers, he was going to end Sherlock’s little observation experiment and chuck the cat out himself.

 

That was what he told himself, anyway. But seeing how happy the creature made both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, he probably wouldn’t have ever been able to do anything of the sort, and he was sure that Sherlock, who in the missing years had only seemed to grow in wiliness, was definitely capitalizing on exactly that fact.

 

 

_THINGS TO DO_

buy lint rollers

 

-

 

Most days were spent with Sherlock staring intently at the cat’s movements, jotting down occasional notes and making clever little sketches. John had quickly disabused him of the notion of putting the cat under any sort of fright or induced stress (despite Sherlock’s arguments of _but think of the scientific merit, John!_ )—it was just about the only thing regarding the cat that he’d managed to bring Sherlock around to his own way of thinking. After what felt like weeks of emotional turmoil, it was almost nice to come back from the clinic to the sight of Sherlock watching the cat—or, as it happened rather more often, Sherlock thumbing through old case files or perusing the Internet using John’s laptop with the cat on his lap, purring loudly.

 

(John was definitely not jealous.)

 

The strangest part of the whole thing was that it actually made Sherlock get off his arse every so often to go and buy the damn milk, because John had made it abundantly clear in the earliest days that he was not going to cater to a cat he didn’t even want. It made him feel like a grumpy and unsupportive parent, but he didn’t care; the only thing that made him slightly annoyed was the fact that only now was Sherlock taking any domestic responsibility. But that was only a slight annoyance, because, as previously said, John Watson was not at _all_ jealous.

 

-

 

“Sherlock, I can’t keep calling your cat _she_. Haven’t you named her by now?”

 

“Of course. Her name is Lavoisier.” (John would swear forever this was delivered with the smallest of smirks.)

 

“What kind of name is that for a female cat, Sherlock?”

 

“It’s dignified! The father of modern chemistry, John. And you must admit that it rolls nicely off the tongue.”

 

“The _father_ of chemistry. Do you see the same problem that I’m seeing?”

 

“Your suggestion, then?”

 

(Pause.)

(Sigh.)

 

“Fine, then. Call her Liv for short.”

 

And goddamnit if he wasn’t _positive_ there was a smirk on both their faces now.

 

“As you wish.”

 

-

 

He still wasn’t happy with the arrangement. Lavoisier (what a ridiculous name!) continued to shed too much; she jumped onto his face at ungodly hours of the morning; she hated it when he attempted to hold her but was quite happy to stake out territory onto his lap and demand to be petted; she was vocal and persistent in her demands for food; ~~she took up too much of Sherlock’s time~~ ; she looked far too smug for her own good; she looked far too _smart_ for her own good. In his more ludicrous moments, John couldn’t help but think that she was keeping Sherlock all to herself on purpose. After all, it had been weeks now where Sherlock seemed to be pursuing investigations other than the behavior of the _felis catus_ , and yet Liv was still ensconced in 221B, petted nightly and showing no sign of ever wanting to leave.

 

John redoubled his efforts to find her real home, but two months in, he’d turned up nothing helpful. And part of his traitorous brain was of the opinion that maybe it wasn’t so bad after all, having a cat to pet after closing the lid of his laptop, even if he knew that the selfish creature was only there for the heat.

 

“You really are insufferable,” he said, to nobody in particular, scratching around one of Liv’s silky black-tipped ears as he tapped thoughtfully on the top of his computer.

 

Meow, said Liv, and purred.

 

-

 

Unsurprisingly enough, two of his lists were beginning to come out very similarly:

 

_HOW TO DEAL WITH SHERLOCK_

_HOW TO DEAL WITH A CAT_

(???)

 

-

 

Perhaps three months after Liv had been dumped so unceremoniously into his life, John realized that Sherlock hadn’t had one of his particularly depressive mood swings in ages, not since after his return. And even John couldn’t convince himself that it was due entirely to the quality of recent crime. (Nothing could be like it was in Moriarty’s day, thank God.)

 

Not that it made Sherlock any less difficult to live with. There were still eyeballs in the refrigerator, and John had yet to discover a brand of plastic wrap that effectively blocked the odor of formaldehyde. It was even worse these days, actually. Twice he’d found dead mice keeping the eyeballs company.

 

-

 

And, well. Maybe it was kind of cute, after all.

 

-

 

_THINGS TO DO_

somehow catproof Sherlock’s chemical laboratory

somehow convince Sherlock to carry out above

~~research feline adoption facilities~~

 

-

 

“ _Sherlock!_ Do you realize that Liv is _heavily pregnant?_ ”

 

“I’m surprised you haven’t. She’s been gaining weight for weeks now.”

 

“Yes, well, I apologize for not religiously weighing the cat! Did you not _read_ those pamphlets I got you? You were supposed to get her spayed!”

 

“That would have been an entirely unproductive waste of hours of my time.”

 

“Sherlock!”

 

“Bored with this conversation.”

 

-

 

_THINGS SHERLOCK IS GOING TO BLOODY WELL DO HIMSELF_

deal with finding those kittens good homes

 

(Because John was, and he would repeat this to hell and back, Not Getting Involved.)

 

-

 

During the next month, he would sometimes catch Sherlock staring at their cat with almost a tender look, in the one or two milliseconds that the former was unoccupied with staring into microscopes and crowing exultantly at Lestrade through increasingly self-satisfied texts. It made his face look nicer, younger.

 

Once, John was sure that Liv caught him looking. He felt ridiculous and strangely guilty for a second, and she gave him a wise, pitying look from her big green eyes. Not that he had anything to be guilty about, because he was definitely, _definitely_ not jealous.

 

-

 

Well, maybe he was, a bit.

 

-

 

“Have you thought of where the kittens might go?” said John to Sherlock one night over spaghetti and some of Mrs. Hudson’s complimentary currant scones.

 

Sherlock shrugged and didn’t look up from _An In-Depth Analysis of Organic Poisons of the Mediterranean._ “Molly might want one; she seems the type.”

 

“Anyone else?” sighed John.

 

He must have sounded more than a bit exasperated, because Sherlock finally did bring his eyes to meet John’s, and after a while John gave up.

 

“We’ll see, I guess,” he said.

 

-

 

And suddenly there were six miniature Lavoisiers running around one morning, just like that. The birth hadn’t been as difficult as John had been expecting; Liv seemed to know what to do, and all John and Sherlock had to do was hover in the background and marvel at life.

 

Crouching on the carpet next to Liv’s blanket-nest, with Sherlock beside him barely breathing, John felt, absurdly, content.

 

-

 

Sherlock wanted to name the kittens any number of ridiculous names. John finally overrode him and gave some of them more normal cattish names, and that was how they ended up with Daisy, Felix, Archie, and Smudge. Kitten Number Five was named Victoria, because they both had a soft spot for that old queen, and Number Six was Schroedinger, because Sherlock insisted that it was amusing.

 

In any other circumstance, John was sure that Sherlock would have soundly mocked anybody who would ever call a cat Schroedinger. Perhaps owning a cat did something to the mind. It must be something like a disease.

 

-

 

The kittens liked John’s jumpers, much to his dismay. Schroedinger in particular, who was the most adventurous of the lot, seemed to consider digging his tiny little claws into John’s precious oatmeal-colored woolen garment as the pinnacle of happiness. This would have been more of a problem if John hadn’t walked into his room one day to see Sherlock on the floor, acting as the nucleus of a pile of happily mewing kittens as they batted indiscriminately both at Sherlock and at John’s much-abused jumper.

 

John barely managed to keep from laughing out loud.

 

“Get them off me,” said Sherlock, without very much conviction.

 

“But they like you so much,” said John, sitting down next to him, extricating a flailing Daisy from the pile, and setting her on his own lap.

 

“I didn’t expect them all to like me,” said Sherlock slowly, as he gave Schroedinger a belly-rub.

 

“You must be going soft these days.”

 

Sherlock shot him a glare; John laughed. They played with the kittens the rest of the afternoon.

 

When Liv walked in to inspect her offspring, she gave both humans an amused look, and settled down in the middle of them, purring.

 

-

 

_HOW TO DEAL WITH CATS_

patience, and a lot of it

old jumpers also help

 

(They’d make a cat person of him yet.)

 

-

 

And then, one night, when the cats were asleep in their nest of blankets and John finally managed to nag Sherlock into e-mailing their combined acquaintances about their surplus of kittens that needed to go to good homes, he found himself looking over Sherlock’s shoulder and past Sherlock’s curls at the white-lit laptop screen ( _John’s_ laptop screen; it always was his, for some reason)—

 

Well, if he happened to rest his head on Sherlock’s and envelop Sherlock’s spiky shoulders in a hug and finally, finally, plant that kiss on his cheek, and then another on the lips as Sherlock turned to return the favor, caustic e-mails temporarily forgotten, well.

 

-

 

 _HOW TO DEAL WITH SHERLOCK_?

 

Not so much of a mystery, after all.


End file.
